


There Where The Sun Didn’t Reach

by 3x3



Series: Translations of hydrviolence [1]
Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: M/M, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 04:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13780134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3x3/pseuds/3x3
Summary: If it had been Evan who died instead of Connor.If Evan had died when he fell off the tree, and Connor received a letter printed by a ghost (or some other force)...TW: Suicide and Suicide AttemptTranslation of the fic 没有阳光的地方





	There Where The Sun Didn’t Reach

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [没有阳光的地方](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13754385) by [hydrviolence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydrviolence/pseuds/hydrviolence). 



> Huge Thanks to hydrviolence who let me translate their beautiful beautiful work into English, and hey, if this sucks, then it's probably all on me, because the original story was amazing.  
> Aaand I know that I'm still in the middle of writing the series Help These Painfully Oblivious Souls, but I couldn't resist. I couldn't get this off of my mind until I typed all of it out!!  
> So uh, sit back, relax, and enjoy this story that wasn't written by me.  
> All the tags remained exactly the same as the original story.

Years later, when Connor Murphy passed by Ellison State Park once again, he looked out the window at the tall sturdy oak trees, and he knew that he was still there under the tree with Evan Hansen, under the shadows cast by the canopy, rotting soundlessly like two fallen leaves, becoming one with the soil and the darkness underground, where no light shone.

* * *

 

At the very beginning of the new semester, these buttons with this bloke’s face printed on them started trending at school for some reason. Connor didn’t bother shooting a spare look at the buttons, nor the bloke. Button, bloke, the honor, the advertising, or the sudden popularity, none of them had anything to do with him. That’s right. None of them had anything to do with Connor. But the afternoon hallways always got sweaty and started smelling like feet, stemming from the blinding sunlight rampaging through the windows, and that sunlight cooked up a thick scent, settling itself firmly in the air, refusing to mellow out. At times like that, watching those self-important idiots pinning the buttons to their shirts with false enthusiasm and sauntering around like pompous pricks, causing the shiny reflective buttons to lead the sunlight onto his face (crawling into his retinas); it stirred up a storm inside Connor, filling him with an overwhelming rush of nausea that made him believe that the most important thing at the moment was that Connor got to vomit up all the disgusting dross- floating about in his stomach- alongside with his digestive juice, all over the buttons with the bloke’s face printed and all over the blokes wearing the buttons.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t do it. He hadn’t learned to puke at whenever he wanted, so the best he could do was to gurgle weakly at his throat. He shut his eyes, cutting his sight away from the sickening displays, and swore to himself that he was going to learn the secret behind selective puking, for future needs of sudden necessity to throw up over narcissistic frauds.

He opened his eyes and rubbed at them with his ring finger. Keeping his gaze glued to the floor, he swiftly stepped into the computer lab, avoiding people as best as he could. He was the only one there. Connor plopped down in front of a computer screen. It was a shady black mirror. Connor blinked, staring at his own reflection. He raised his hand to tuck a few loose strands of hair behind his ear. That guy on the computer screen, he was more unbearable than all the other people; shadowy, dirty, greasy, disgusting little runt who couldn’t change any……

The whirring noise of the printer burst through his eardrums. Connor twisted his head to look at the printer, watching it barf out a piece of paper with a buzz.

Connor stood up and looked around. There was no other person in the lab, only him. If so, who printed the paper? Definitely not Connor, he was sure that he didn’t print anything out. He grabbed his messenger bag roughly, the connecting part between his thumb and index finger rubbed against the strap. He hesitated, but walked towards the printer nevertheless, reaching out to pick up the printed paper.

The last remains of warmth lingered on the surface. He held it up, and the first thing that caught his eye was the line: _Turns out this wasn’t an amazing day after all._

Connor bit his lip and kept reading on. _Turns out this wasn’t an amazing day after all. This isn’t going to be an amazing week or an amazing year. Because why would it be?_ He was almost laughing. In fact, he already was, it was just that his facial muscles couldn’t arrange themselves into a curve. For the longest time, his face felt like it was made of dead meat. Numb, insensible, unable to control or feel, incapable of smiling or softening, only set on the unchanging scowl. It was less of a face, and more of a hideous mask super-glued to his front. Biting his lips was about the equivalent of a laugh for him. These printed words made him laugh, not on the outside, but inside his heart.

It was as if he wrote the words himself. Fucking _good times_ , more like nonexistent bullshit. Why did everyone believe they automatically deserved happiness? Why didn’t they believe they automatically _didn’t_ get happiness?

Why wasn’t there any happiness? Because… why would there be?

That was how the world worked. He knew, whoever wrote the paper knew too.

Connor lifted his head to scan the room once more. He was still the only one there. The printer fell back into silence. Connor wondered who printed the thing, and ducked his head to continue reading.

_Oh, I know, because there’s Zoe, and all my hope is pinned on Zoe, who I don’t even know and who doesn’t know me._

Connor narrowed his eyes, and looked up again, this time it was because of rage. _Someone was messing with him_. Someone knew he was here, so they printed out this thing written about his sister, waiting for him to read it so they could see his reaction. Someone was toying with him, treating him like some lab rat, trying to provoke him so they could prove him mad, _out-of-his-mind, batshit crazy._

Yes, he was crazy. He turned crazy a long time ago. They were finally happy, weren’t they?

But who was it tormenting him?

He was the only one there. Who was it controlling the printer from outside the room? Was that possible?

Connor decided to finish reading the stupid prank. Might give him a better clue to figure out the douche that wrote it in the first place. The condescending jerk was going to _get_ it from Connor as soon as he got a hold of them. This time he started from the very start, paying more tentative attention. The printed piece of paper held the following words:

 

Dear Evan Hansen,

Turns out this wasn’t an amazing day after all. This isn’t going to be an amazing week or an amazing year. Because why would it be? Oh, I know, because there’s Zoe, and all my hope is pinned on Zoe, who I don’t even know and who doesn’t know me. But… you know, maybe if I could just talk to her then maybe… Maybe nothing will be different at all. I wish everything was different. I wish I was part of something. I wish that anything I said mattered to anyone. I mean, face it. Would anyone even notice if I just disappeared tomorrow?

Sincerely,

Your best and dearest friend,

Me

 

Connor glared at the signature at the end. _“Me”_. For a moment he was light-headed. _“Me”?_ Had he written it after all? Had he printed it by himself? He was getting confused. He didn’t think he was crazy enough, or _high_ enough to not remember what he did or did not write. He looked at the computer in front of his abandoned seat, then at his fingers. He didn’t recall typing out the words. But… why did they sound like they came from Connor? Who did he write it to? Connor peered at the name of the addressed- Evan Hansen.

Evan Hansen? He didn’t know anyone walking around with that name.

...Evan Hansen? The name looked disturbingly familiar.

Connor reread the letter. _Would anyone even notice if I just disappeared tomorrow?_

 _Would anyone even notice if I just disappeared tomorrow?_ He softly recited the line, moving his lips at bare minimum. This thing… whatever it was, it put down the words in his mind. No, scratch that, except the part about Zoe.

Connor’s chaotic mind finally cleared up a little bit. He could swear on his life, no matter how crazy he got, or if he’d gotten so high he was up above the ceilings, he would never write about Zoe like that. It was the low low chance of zero, under all and any circumstances. And, his gaze swept pass the sentences, this time it felt different. It wasn’t Connor at all, not even a little bit. Connor would never write in such a feigned manner.

The question popped back up again. If it wasn’t written by Connor himself, then by _whom_?

 _Dear Evan Hansen._ Connor circled back to the name. The letter was for Evan Hansen, then by logic, this would be written by someone who knew Evan Hansen. Evan Hansen… the name was a nagging tug at the back of his mind.

Connor remembered where he’d seen the name. It was on the buttons, standing neatly under the picture of the bloke. Connor folded up the letter and stuffed it in his pocket, then he rushed out the computer lab and grabbed the first bloke-button-wearing bloke he saw.

“Who is that?” he jabbed a finger into the button that stuttering student was wearing on his chest.

“E-Evan Hansen.” the unlucky ass was slightly stammering.

“I know!” He knew it was Evan Hansen! The question was, who was the guy behind that name?

The unlucky ass didn’t dare retort _Then why would you ask?_ , barely managing to maintain eye-contact with the infamous school-shooter looking psychopath.

“Where is he?” Connor decided to change his approach. Find Evan Hansen, and he could just ask who was the guy that printed out this prank letter.

“Um.. Possibly… I believe…” the student didn’t know how to answer. “I would guess that he’s in… a tomb.”

“A tomb?” Connor started contemplating if Evan Hansen was a vampire or a zombie.

“He’s dead.” The student chose to lay out all the facts at once. “Didn’t you know?” His pace of speech quickened, getting out the last bit before Connor could interrupt him, “Evan passed away this summer. The whole school is mourning.”

Connor took half a step back. “He’s dead?”

“Tragic, isn't it?” the student remarked off-handedly, eager to break away.

“Suicide?” Connor asked.

But the student was already gone, and left no answer for him.

* * *

 

When he returned home, Connor shut his door and slid down in his room, alone. When he felt calm enough, he took out the letter, and reread it.

The third time reading, the feeling shifted yet again. Maybe he was cloud-headed in school, maybe he was too agitated to think reasonably, but now he could view it fairly. Connor sat on his bed, and looked at the signature “ _Me_ ”. Then he looked at “ _Dear Evan Hansen_ ”. It was a letter to himself, couldn’t be more apparent. “ _Me_ ” was “ _Evan Hansen_ ”. He used to play the same sick game with his counselor, writing letters to himself, or writing letters to his “issues”. _Dear Connor Murphy. Dear Temper Problem of Dear Connor Murphy. Dear Drug Abuse Issue of Dear Connor Murphy. Dear Insanity Nuisance of Dear Connor Murphy…_. What he was seeing was something of the same nature, except it wasn’t written by Connor Murphy, but by Evan Hansen.

The same Evan Hansen who wrote _Would anyone even notice if I just disappeared tomorrow?_

The same Evan Hansen who was dead, who disappeared.

But, after he calmed down, Connor thought, the Zoe in the letter was probably not his sister, probably another Zoe that Evan Hansen knew. His sister was not the only person in the world called Zoe. Evan Hansen could’ve been writing about any other Zoe.

It wasn’t a prank letter. He wished it wasn’t a prank letter. It was just… a letter- a letter to Evan Hansen, from Evan Hansen.

His best and dearest friend was himself, Connor realized, Evan Hansen’s best and dearest friend was “ _Me_ ”.

Then another question emerged: Evan Hansen was dead. Who printed the letter?

He was alone in the computer lab. No one else was there.

Maybe the computer and the printer went bonkers and printed out an old document.

Maybe a ghost printed it. Maybe the ghost of dead Evan Hansen printed the letter out for Connor to see.

Connor wasn’t scared of ghosts. He wasn’t scared of anything living, why would he be scared of anything dead? Maybe, the dead was more welcoming for him.

“It was suicide.” Connor said oddly, folding the letter back up. Evan Hansen must’ve died from suicide. Connor knew that, like he knew humans couldn’t live without air.

Suicide was the only logical explanation, wasn’t it? Someone who wrote _Would anyone even notice if I just disappeared tomorrow?_ made himself disappear; someone who didn’t believe in happiness, knew better to hope, understood that nothing would change at all, and disappeared, suicide. Definitely.

Yet it wasn’t because of those reasons that Connor believed that Evan Hansen died from suicide. He believed that only because- it was a bit ridiculous, maybe a little psychic, undoubtedly unconvincing- he knew, he knew it happened just like that.

* * *

 

At dinner, Connor struck up a conversation with Zoe. He looped around the topic, and made it as short as possible. It was for Zoe’s own sake. Whenever they had a conversation that lasted over a minute, Conner would develop the strongest urge to sock the brat. After mentally preparing himself, Connor looked up from his plate of organic vegetables and gluten-free goop. He started at Zoe. “Know Evan Hansen?”

“What?” Zoe asked, putting down her fork, “What did you say?”

“Do you… know Evan Hansen?”

“Everyone knows Evan Hansen.”

“Did you know him?” Connor made his question a little more specific. “Did you know the alive Evan Hansen?”

“What’s that supposed to mean.”

The brat was playing dumb, but he wouldn’t get mad over that yet. “When Evan Hansen was still alive. Did you know him?”

“No.” Zoe’s answer was clipped and curt.

“How did he die?”

“Did you not go to school at all?” Zoe crossed her arms. “Mom, Connor might not have been at school all this time.”

“I went.” Connor clenched his fists.

“Then how can you not know? Everyone at school knows. Didn’t you hear the principal?”

He didn’t have the patience to listen to the old hag’s yammering. Connor chose not to stick on the topic of his school attendance, or his ignorance to the principal’s words. “How did Evan Hansen die?”

“Why do you care all of a sudden?”

“How did Evan Hansen die?”

“Fine.” Zoe sighed. “He fell off a tree on his park ranger job.”

Connor listened quietly.

“Rumor has it that he didn’t die immediately after the fall. It was just that there was no one around and the delay took his life.”

“Suicide.” Connor said. “He didn’t fall off by accident.. He mustn’t have. It was suicide.”

“And you know everything, is that it?” Zoe got angry first.

“I do.”

“Mom, I think he’s getting worse.” Zoe’s blocking him out, “Look. He’s making up his own truth again.”

It wasn’t made up, he just knew.

Zoe looked back at him. “If you want to kill yourself, that’s your own problem. But don’t slap it onto Evan Hansen just because it’s what you’re thinking.”

Connor stood up abruptly. The chair fell backward and hit the floor with a _bang_.

Zoe glared at him. She was never afraid of him.

Connor flipped the dinner plate over and stormed back into his room, locking the door. His mother was saying something from the other side, knocking on the surface. He wasn’t listening. Zoe wanted him dead, he knew what she meant. What she really wanted to say was _if you want to die, do it._ That was what she meant. He couldn’t know better. She hoped that he would die as soon as possible, preferably die from killing himself, and not letting her know that it was suicide. Then she could have two birds with one stone. 1. The person she hated most was dead. 2. She wouldn’t get any emotional burden.

The question was, should he follow her wish?

If he died, Zoe clearly wouldn’t be sad at all. Connor rubbed his hands, pacing the room restlessly. His dad wouldn’t be sad either, only displeased at the amount of money they wasted on him. But his mom…

Should he follow her wish?

Should he follow his own wish?

* * *

 

At night, while he was brushing his teeth, Connor Murphy looked at himself in the mirror.

Why brush his teeth?

To save the money for the dentist trip.

Or maybe out of habit. Some sort of habit. Like how eating is a habit, walking is a habit, breathing is a habit.

Connor tried to hold his breath. If people could die from holding their breaths….

A minute later, his body gave up, taking in huge gulps of air. How disappointing. Habits and instincts were stubborn, unbreakable. Nothing would change. No one would change. No problem would resolve…

He looked at the guy in the mirror. White toothpaste foam dribbled down his chin. He stopped brushing his teeth.

It was too late. The rest of his family had gone to sleep. Or maybe it was too early, sneaking into dawn, and the rest of his family hadn’t gotten up yet.

Connor looked at himself, and he threw the toothbrush at the mirror violently. The toothpaste foam splashed in all directions.

He pushed out, kicking open Zoe’s door.

“You want me dead!” He screamed at Zoe. “Go to hell! Go to hell! Got to hell!”

Zoe woke up with a start. She was in her pajamas and she was so frightened she nearly jumped out of bed.

“Go to hell! Go to hell! Go to hell!” he screeched.

“What’s your _problem_?” she screamed at him.

“I don’t have a _fucking problem_!” he screamed right back. “You want me dead. I won’t let you get away with it! I won’t!”

Someone grabbed a hold of him from behind, he started shrieking, like a madman in a movie, swinging his limbs, trying to break free and thrashing at anything within his reach at the same time.

Someone was hollering at him, “Stop!”

He didn’t listen, and kept shrieking, crashing down on the floor with the person with the hold on him. Zoe was shouting. The person with the hold on him was yelling. The last thing Connor saw was a pair of slippers, his mother’s slippers, he recognized. A very familiar pair of slippers.

When his mother started crying, he had already started to quiet down.

Why cry? He wondered, and then he didn’t know anything

* * *

 

Connor was rewarded with medicine pills, and a day off from school. Hurrah.

Honestly, he wanted to go to school, just a little. To get a memorial Evan Hansen button. He never got a close look at the picture of the boy who killed himself. Connor lay in bed, trying his best to recreate the image in his mind, that tiny glance he got. It was a black-and-white photo, but it was defined enough. Evan Hansen, Connor thought, had a pale face and a closed off expression. An empty look.

Connor closed his eyes and willed Evan’s face up.

 _What are you like_? He asked. There was no answer. Of course not.

 _Turns out this wasn’t an amazing day after all._ You were the person who wrote that line.

No one would notice even if you disappeared?

From one angle, that wasn’t the case at all. Everyone noticed. The goons at school who had nothing to do with you all noticed, and used you as masturbation material, for a quick shot of cheap self-consolation. They made big money by selling off buttons and other dirty businesses.

From another angle, you were absolutely right. You disappeared, died, no one noticed. You had nothing to do with the death. What was important was the photos and the fake stories of a terribly tragic accident. People noticed the values of your name, not you. Sadly, Connor was just like them, wasn’t he?

Connor sat up on his bed and made way to the bathroom. He squatted down next to the toilet and opened his mouth, but he couldn’t puke. He stuck his hand in, picking at his throat, after dry-heaving for a bit, all he managed was some translucent mucus.

He didn’t know how to puke.

Connor sat down next to the toilet.

 _What were you thinking when you died_? He asked Evan silently. _What were you thinking when you let go? When you lay there under the tree, waiting for death to claim you, what were you feelings? Did you look at the sky through the branches and the leaves?_ Of course, there was no answer.

People should die like that. Everyone should. Come and go, appear and disappear, quietly fading away from others’ memories, like they never even existed in the first place. A transparent ghost, slowing drifting apart; an abandoned recollection, shattered into pieces; a rainbow arch under the sunlight, paling white. People were falling raindrops, merging into the lake soundlessly, spreading away in a ripple; people were drying leaves, spiraling down in Autumn, rotting beneath the tree into the dirt until they became one with the earth. No one would know. No one would remember. Dissipating in the air, and no one would spare a glance.

They noticed your photo, but it had nothing to do with you yourself. You’re dead, you’ve disappeared.

The thought brought Connor peace. He got to his feet and washed his hands, looking at himself in the mirror. He half-hoped to see the pale face of Evan Hansen looking back, but there was just himself.

* * *

 

A few days later, Connor climbed up the short tree in the backyard.

But all the trees were connected, intertwined, so he reached up to grab higher branches, kicking his feet to get farther away from the ground; and from the short tree in his backyard, he made it to Evan Hansen’s suicide tree, made it to the place where he let go.

It was notably high, the sky opened up above heads, stretching out all directions for forever. He could see the surrounding woods in Ellison State Park. When the wind whooshed by, the leaves trembled.

He tightened his grip on the tree and looked down at the ground beneath him, taking in how far from him it actually was. The height closed up his throat and quickened his heartbeat. Something was rushing through his veins, pumping excitement and pleasure all around.

He stayed there for about fifteen minutes, just holding on a branch and looking at the ground. He didn’t do anything but look at the ground quietly, waiting for his heart to stop racing and his palms to stop sweating. Connor let go of the branch, and maybe he gave the tree a little push as well. His body fell backwards, losing his footing. He tumbled down.

When Connor woke up, he was lying on the ground, face-up. He opened his eyes and glanced up, watching the leaves of the tree both Connor and Evan fell out of dance leisurely to the currents of the wind. The sky between the gaps bobbed along as well. Connor twisted his head and directed his gaze to his right. Evan Hansen lay at his right, and he turned his head to look back at Connor.

“You found me.” Evan said to Connor.

“ _You_ found _me_.” Connor said back.

They lay under the tree, staring into each other’s eyes.

“ _Would anyone even notice if I just disappeared tomorrow?”_ Connor asked.

“I wrote that.” Evan answered.

“You also wrote that you hoped anything you said mattered to anyone.”

“Yes.”

“They mattered to me.”

“I’m afraid that wasn’t what I meant.”

“I’m afraid not.” Connor said. “A shame.”

“It’s alright.” Evan said.

They lay there, staring into each others’ eyes, or staring up at the sky. The sunlight had already vanished, and the air was darkening down. Connor thought that they could lay there forever, just the way they were.

“Can I pretend that you’re my friend?” he asked Evan.

“We _are_ friends.” Evan replied, then paused and asked. “Have you heard of the falling tree?”

“No. What’s that?”

“If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?”

Connor pondered upon it. “If they die from suicide, then somebody has to come around to collect the dead body so they could bury them”

“Not what I was asking.” Evan explained. “If the person who committed suicide was unheard of, does it count as a suicide?”

Connor lay on the ground, watching the sky bleed black all over. No sunlit leaves and branches swayed to a rhythm. “I get what you’re asking now.” he responded.

“Well,” Evan said, “What’s the answer? Does it make a sound? Does it not make a sound?”

“Yes, and no.” Connor replied.

“That’s an answer.”

“What does dying feel like?” Connor asked.

“What do you think it feels like?” Evan retorted.

“Like shit.” Connor told him. “As shitty as living.”

Evan Hansen laughed.

So Connor Murphy laughed with him.

* * *

 

“Oh my god, he’s _laughing_!” Zoe’s voice made it through.

“What are you doing?” his mother’s voice asked. “Why are you lying here?”

Connor watched his mother bend over with a look of concern pooling in her gaze. “Nothing.” Connor answered. “Nothing at all.” he lay face-up under the short tree in the backyard. The sky was dark and the streetlights shone bright.

“You’re laughing.” his mother studied him uncertainly.

“Yes, I’m laughing.” Connor tried to retrain his face from smiling. “I’m fine.”

“What did you take?” she thought he was high on something.

“Nothing at all.” he struggled to get up. His body was a bit numb from lying there for too long.

“He’s definitely high.” Zoe judged.

Connor wasn’t in the mood to talk back. Not now.

“Are you okay?” his mother was still worried, very worried.

“Yes, I’m fine.” he repeated himself.

“It’s been years since I last seen you smile.”

“It hasn’t been _years_ ,” Connor said, and quirked up a little smile. His smile felt ugly on his face.

“What were you doing under the tree?” they wouldn’t leave him alone.

“Nothing.” he said, “Seriously. Nothing. Not a thing. I didn’t do _any_ thing.”

“Really?” they wouldn’t believe him.

“Really.” he said.

“Okay.” his mother said. “It’s time for dinner.”

His elbows dug into the ground and his feet found the floor. He looked at the light pouring out of their window. “Okay.” He took a step towards the light, but because he only just stood up, and his legs were still as numb as a pair of wooden sticks, he stumbled, almost falling.

“I told you he’s high.” Zoe commented.

“Okay.” he said, steadying himself, regaining his balance. “I’m fine now.”

“You’re revolting.” Zoe said, and left without him.

He followed her for a step or two before stopping and glancing back at the tree.

Under the looming shadows, Connor saw himself with Evan Hansen, lying there by their suicide tree, shoulder to shoulder like a pair of friends. He stared quietly for a while, then turned to face his own house. He felt his mother’s uneasy gaze the entire time.

“I’m fine.” Connor said. “Dinner’s ready.”

He walked towards the bright window with his mother. He walked, one foot after the other, but at the same time, Connor knew, Connor _felt_ , he was still with Evan Hansen.

They lay under the suicide tree, in the lightless night. Like close friends, like dead lovers, away from the sunlight, dwelling in the darkness, in the forgotten and the unknown lands. They lay, chatting or otherwise, watching the empty sky. Forever, dead.

* * *

 

Years later, Connor Murphy could not say that he was fixed, but at least he could deal with everyday life. Zoe still said that he had a nightmarish temper. He couldn’t protest. His dad was mostly ashamed of him, only satisfied with him occasionally. His mom was worried sometimes. Sometimes, and then she would direct her attention back to things like yoga.

Yes, she was back into yoga. It was like fashion trends, something that got eliminated twenty years ago might flare back again to the top, everything moved in an endless cycle.

He still hadn’t learned to puke. One day he would, or so that’s what he hoped. And he was with Evan Hansen all alone. He knew, when he let go, part of him died with Evan Hansen. They were there where the sun didn’t reach, where they were forgotten by everyone except Connor.

They made a sound. They didn’t make a sound.

He listened to the silence. Like when he woke up in the middle of the night, when he looked at a dark space, when he saw the Connor Murphy and Evan Hansen’s suicide tree, he gazed at the black nothingness.

Years later, one day at sunset, he passed by Ellison State Park again for the first time. He didn’t even notice it was Ellison State Park, until he remembered.

He drove as he looked at the trees from the car window.

He heard commotion by his side. Evan, riding shotgun, was awake. Connor turned his head to look at him. Evan’s hair was mussed, because he had just woken up. His expression was one of tiredness as well as confusion.

“Ellison State Park.” Connor said to Evan, pointing out the window.

Evan sat up a little straighter, looking out the window.

“Evan Hansen died here.” Connor told him.

“Evan?” Evan asked.

“Not you, obviously. Another Evan. He shared a name with you.” Connor said. Part of the reason why he approached Evan was because of his name- Evan. Different last name from Evan Hansen. The other part of the reason- the most important part- was because the look on Evan’s face reminded him of Evan Hansen. The fist time Connor met him- _this Evan_ \- Evan’s expression was lonely. His face was private, as empty as the cast on his arm. “Do you want me to sign your cast?” Connor asked.

“Are you talking to me?” Evan asked back.

“You.” Connor said. “What’s your name.”

“Evan.” Evan said.

Connor took out a sharpie and signed his name in blocky letters, eating up all the space. “This is my name.” he told Evan.

That was how he met _this Evan_.

“Tell me about that Evan.” Evan requested.

“Okay.” Connor glanced at the trees before settling his eyes back on the road. “Evan Hansen. My classmate. He had a summer job as a park ranger. He fell from a tree and died.”

Evan didn’t say anything.

After a while, Connor felt Evan’s hand on his thigh, a gentle, comforting pat.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos should also go to the original story please? It's such a great piece!!


End file.
